


Crimson Regret

by whimseyrhodes



Category: Leverage
Genre: Eliot!Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Like this is really violent, Reference to Child Abuse, reference to Non/Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 18:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13324311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimseyrhodes/pseuds/whimseyrhodes
Summary: When Eliot is captured for an illegal fight club, will the others get to him in time, or will he die in the ring?





	1. Chapter 1

'Anytime, Nate,' Eliot thought as he stood swaying, blood dripping down his chin, '…anytime you wanna get me out of this mess, you can, but come on, man, make it soon.'

Eliot saw the meaty fist swinging towards his head but could not avoid it in time. The blackness that was hazing the edges of his vision filled with stars, and he felt his body slamming into the sand. He desperately tried to hang on to consciousness, because he knew that if he didn't stay awake, they would kill him.

Tuesday had started as usual. Eliot woke before dawn and donned an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt and started his morning run. He had about three hours to kill before he was expected at the offices. Circling around the warehouse district, he then ran along the docks. He loved the crispness of the early morning air and the scents of the river; even though there were many scents that were not so pleasing, like rotting fish and garbage, he fancied that he was able to smell the ocean from here. Over the past few months, he had developed a routine of sorts, so the early morning dock workers were unfazed by his presence, and a few even waved. The hitter waved back, and continued on his run. Although he was familiar in this area, he made it a point to vary his routine enough that it wasn't predictable, by running at different times of the day, and on different routes. As careful as he was, however, he knew that one of these days he would have to find another area of the city to go to, since he had been running here for almost two months.

Eliot was mulling over those thoughts as he raced over a footbridge, enjoying the pull of his leg muscles while barges with their tugboats and a container ship passed below him. He crossed the bridge and headed down the ramp towards the fish market, then circled around and started back. He wasn't about to try dodging the salmon and mackerel that sailed through the air as the fish sellers tossed their wares from the trucks to the vending stalls. He had made that mistake once, and spent an extra fifteen minutes in the shower trying to get the tuna stench from his hair.

During the last blocks of his run, Eliot slowed to a jog, then a fast walk, stretching his arms above his head to expand his lungs and allow him to take deep breaths. Shaking his arms and rolling his head from side to side to loosen up, he didn't notice the shadow in the doorway across the street. Too late he heard a soft hiss and then felt a stinging bite on the back of his neck. Instantly he swatted at it, bring his hand away with a small dart.

"Sonovabi…." He started to swear, then slumped to the ground, half hidden in the entryway of his apartment.

He felt hands grabbing his arms, then they loaded him into a panel van. Because he was aware, but could not move, he knew that they must have used pancuronium, a highly effective muscle relaxant that paralyzed, but did not render the victim unconscious. He heard the van engine start, then felt it drive away, and could only wonder at their destination.

After more than five hours of driving, Eliot had fallen asleep. Since the pancuronium lasted only about two hours, he had been injected twice more to keep him incapacitated. He had no idea why they had chosen muscle relaxants rather than a straight sedative, but tried to use it to his advantage for as long as he could.

His eyes were closed, but he could hear the voices of at least three men. The ease with which two of them lifted him into the van spoke of strength, and the accuracy of the other who had darted him worried the specialist. These three were professionals.

By the angle of the sun on his face he figured that they were heading slightly south/southeast, which would lead them into Nevada.

'What was in Nevada,' he mused, 'other than desert, snakes, and sand?' He racked his brain for anything that would make sense, but after hours of being unable to move, he was powerless to keep sleep at bay, and drifted into semi-consciousness.

Eliot hadn't been asleep for more than an hour when the van slowed to a stop. He felt hands grabbing him again, and dragging him. As his feet dropped out of the van, they dragged through sand, as he expected. The sun was hot on his skin, and sweat began to form on the back of his neck. The air felt dry.

He heard more voices, but with the cumulative effects of the drug and his own confusion he was unable to make much sense of the little they said.

They dragged him a little further and he heard a heavy door opening and then clanging closed, and then he was dropped unceremoniously to the floor. His wrists were encased in heavy iron manacles that he assumed were attached to the wall. The ground underneath him felt sandy and uneven, and there were a few rocks that pushed into his back and hip.

His captors walked away, and he heard the rasp of a key in a heavy lock before the footsteps retreated.

Breathing then announced that he wasn't alone in his prison. Before long, voices started to filter into his awareness.

"Got another one, huh?" a deep voice sounded.

"Poor sonuvabitch." This one was a bit higher, but raspy, like the owner was a lifelong smoker.

"Looks kinda small, think he'll last?" a third voice queried.

"Small yeah, but he looks strong," Smoker said.

"I'll give 'em two days," Deep Voice said.

A loud clanging sounded along the door and an angry voice yelled, "Shaddup!" and the other voices were silent once again.

Eliot drifted.

The hitter came awake in an instant as a pan full of water was tossed in his face. He coiled his legs underneath him and he sprang to his feet to charge at his attacker, but he had forgotten that his hands were chained to the wall behind him. His charge was painfully stopped as his arms were yanked back, immobile. He ignored the pain, leaning away from the wall as far as he could, growling, his arms pulled back at an almost 90 degree angle.

The man in front of him laughed at the rage on Eliot's face, and simply tossed a paper bag at him which bounced off his chest and dropped to the floor.

"You wanna eat, be my guest, you wanna just stand there and be pissy, you can do that too." Eliot recognized the voice as one of the three who had captured him. The man was in his mid thirties, solidly built, with dark hair and a beard.

"What do you want?" he snarled. "Who are you?"

"No questions, dirtbag. Eat or don't. Your choice." With that the man left the cell, locking it on the way out.

Eliot stepped back, trying to calm himself. He took a good look around at his prison. The walls were rough hewn rock, and the floors were the same, covered with sand and a few small rocks and pebbles. The room he was in was about eighteen feet square, and housed three other men, all looking measuringly at him. They were also chained to the wall, the chain looped through a metal ring set into the wall about three feet from the floor. None of the men could move more than two feet from the wall, and neither could they reach each other. All had strange metal collars around their necks, and when he concentrated, Eliot could feel one around his neck as well.

He looked at the bag that had fallen to the floor, and bent down to pick it up.

"Better take the bastard's advice and eat up," said Smoker.

Eliot cocked a brow at the man as he unwrapped the paper. Smoker was a tall man, over six and a half feet, with short brown hair that was graying on the sides. He looked like an average bruiser, with thick arms and a broad chest. The hitter looked at the other two and saw that they were of a similar build, strong and muscular.

"So, what are we in for?" He asked as he took a bite of the flavorless sandwich.

"You? You're in for a hell of a beating and then a quick death, I think," said Deep Voice as the third man chuckled. "I give you two days, then you're outta here."

"Hey man, give him a break. Three days, max." Smoker said.

The third man took pity on his evident confusion as the other two laughed roughly. "It's a fight club man, and we're the main events."


	2. Chapter 2

"It's a fight club man, and we're the main events."

During the following few hours, Eliot managed to learn that all three of the other men were from the Portland area, and had been kidnapped within the last week or so. Driven out to the middle of the desert, they were then kept in an old abandoned, underground gold mine. Smoker, whose real name was Jack, had been there for the longest. He figured he had been there for about eight days. He'd had other companions at that time, but they were gone now. None of the men said what 'gone' meant, but Eliot had a good idea. Bud (Deep Voice) had been there for about five days, and the third man, Rick, had been there for only three.

All three were covered in bruises and showed signs of beatings and abuse; Jack's left eye was swollen shut and he favored his right arm, Bud's left wrist looked broken and he avoided using it, and Rick's breathing was labored and wheezy. None of them outwardly showed pain; in fact, they all made efforts to conceal their injuries. Eliot only noticed because he was well trained and had suffered from similar injuries, and he was also actively looking for them. Since they were supposedly being kept for a fight club, it would follow that these men could in the future be his opponents. Therefore, he watched them covertly for strengths and weaknesses both.

They were deep enough in the mine to need lanterns lit even during the day, but by the slightly falling temperature Eliot figured it was night. The other men obviously thought the same thing, because they all sat or lay on the rocky floor and tried to sleep, so Eliot followed their lead and did the same. Rocks kept poking him in the side as he shifted to get comfortable, but he disregarded them and concentrated on resting.

The clanging of the door woke him up later, and all four men stood up warily.

"Don't fight 'em!" Bud hissed at Eliot.

Three men entered the room; two were wearing gauntleted gloves and carrying long poles, and headed for Rick. The look of fey desperation and fear on his face was quickly masked, and he backed up to the wall, unresisting. One of the guards held a remote of some kind as the second stepped close to Rick and attached a pole to his collar. Then the third man unlocked the manacles from the chain and relocked them behind his back. The second started to walk out the door, leading Rick with the pole, then the third attached his pole to the man's collar in the back, so that he was held between them like a rabid dog. They exited the room, the man with the remote following silently. The whole procedure took less than two minutes and looked well rehearsed.

"What the hell was that?" Eliot asked.

"Don't worry, man, your chance is next," Jack said despondently.

He didn't have to wait long. Ten minutes later the three men had returned and headed towards him.

"You're new, so let me lay this out. You go smartly, like the other guy, you don't get hurt. You fight, and you'll wish you hadn't."

Eliot snorted. He would fight with everything he had for just one chance to get out of this place.

The man with the remote recognized his defiance, but waited for Eliot to make a move, his finger ready on one of the buttons. Others had looked at him like that, but then settled. He would wait to see what this one would do.

The man with the first pole stepped up and attached it to Eliot's collar, and the second man came up and unlocked his chains. As he did, Eliot grabbed the pole and yanked, simultaneously kicking out at the one who had just unlocked him. The man with the remote sighed as he depressed the button and Eliot's collar came alive.

Eliot had been hit with tasers, cattle prods, and even live wires, but it was nothing compared to this. This felt like a taser on crack, jumped up and magnified tenfold. His head snapped back and all of his muscles seized, the current so strong he convulsed and fell against the wall, cracking his head on the rock as he fell to the floor.

They dragged him away from the wall and locked his cuffs behind him, then threw another bucket of water on his face. Spitting and gasping, he tried to calm his rapidly misfiring nerves.

"Warned ya, ya dumb shit. Now get up and let's try that again."

Eliot shook his head as he struggled to his knees, taking a deep breath as he lurched to his feet.

The man with the remote held it close to the hitter's face, as if to warn him that he was serious. Eliot looked him in the eyes and let them attach the second pole, the urge to fight having been currently suppressed. Thus chained, they jerked on the poles, and Eliot followed submissively where he was led.

After the door was locked behind them, the three men led the Retrieval Specialist along a series of dark tunnels that were lit with a string of naked bulbs tacked to the low ceiling. Every few feet a wooden 8x8 braced the walls and ceiling, testimony to the fact that this was a very old mine indeed. Abandoned crates littered the tunnel, pushed towards the wall, and a few carts with boulders still in them sat forlornly, knocked off their tracks. The whole system of tunnels felt long abandoned and forgotten except for the single tunnel leading from their cell to the outside.

When they exited the mine, Eliot was somewhat surprised to see that it was still night. Stars glittered brightly in the sky, and the waning moon hung high over the desert, creating the illusion of a vast uninhabited ocean of sand. The only other illumination came from the headlights of two idling trucks. Rick sat in the back of one, watched over by his own set of guards as Eliot was led to the other.

When Eliot was secured in the back of the second truck, they rumbled into motion and set off across the desert to an unknown location.

They had driven for about half an hour before they stopped. When the engines were cut Eliot could hear voices. Lots of voices, male and surprisingly, female too. He was roughly jerked out of the truck and landed on hard packed sand. Without pause he was led, his handlers holding the poles tightly, to a well lit area that he could only think of as an arena. There were no walls or other structures, but there was a nearly circular open space of about 60 feet in diameter. Around this people milled around, talking and drinking what looked like champagne. They were well dressed in suits and even a few tuxedos, and the few women wore evening gowns and flashing jewels. Behind the crowd were high end cars that glittered in the light of the generator powered arrays at four corners of the field. Eliot was able to pick out a few Mercedes and BMW's from the larger selection of Humvees and other big SUV's.

Eliot looked over the set-up and was impressed. For an illegal fight club, this was arranged well. There was no permanent building, and supposedly all traces of activity in the area would be erased by the desert winds. The area was completely open, with no mountains or even scrub trees visible; giving plenty of warning should they be raided, whether by land or air. All of the vehicles were circled around the arena facing outward, ready for fast getaways if needed. Even the lighting arrays were set on generator trucks for fast take-down. He could also see a couple of vans with satellite dishes and cameras on the tops, and doors wide open to reveal a road-worthy computer system even Hardison might drool over. The only thing he couldn't figure out was how the club bosses kept the fighters from running once they were unchained.

Rick stood with his handlers at the close end of the arena, where Eliot was also led, and two other men in chains and collars stood at the other end.

The crowd gathered as they saw the fighters being led to their positions, and a hush fell over them as Rick and one of the other men were brought toward the center. Each fighter was led by their three handlers about ten feet from the edge to a man who held a varied assortment of weapons for each man to choose from. They made their selections, Rick choosing a long bladed knife and his opponent a set of nun-chucks. The weapons-bearers gathered the rest of the armaments and returned to the edge of the ring, and the men holding the poles then unlocked them and the cuffs from each man's wrists. The handlers withdrew, the men with the remotes watching their fighter closely to make sure he didn't bolt. As the controllers stepped back from the edge, Eliot felt a tiny pulse of electricity emanate from his collar. It wasn't enough to shock him, but it was enough to make him aware of its presence.

"That baby shock you just felt was a perimeter fence going up," one of his keepers warned him. "Each of those collars has its own frequency. When you're inside, you're fine. Try to go outside the fence, and you'll be shocked so hard it'll knock you on your ass."

Eliot filed the information away and settled to watch the fight.

Rick and his opponent weren't very well matched; Rick was a little shorter than the other man, but faster. The taller man wasn't very good with the nun-chucks either, but he'd only had the choice between them and a mace.

The fight only lasted for five minutes, ending when Rick dodged a clumsy swing and lunged under his opponent's arm, burying his knife deeply in the man's chest. The wounded man coughed and slid to the ground. Rick stood over him as the crowd cheered and jeered, bets won and lost.

The two sets of handlers entered the ring again, and Rick was once again locked to the poles, his hands cuffed. The other keepers checked the downed man and nodded. Two of them dragged the body away, and the third handed the nun-chucks to Rick's keepers.

Rick was led back to the edge of the ring, and Eliot could hear his slightly wheezing breath. The Specialist's controllers jerked on his collar and now led Eliot to the center of the ring. His large opponent carried a short staff, about three feet long. Eliot's collar was released and his handlers backed away, and he felt the perimeter fence go up.

'Wait a minute!' he thought. 'What the hell? Don't I get a weapon?'

His adversary rushed at him and he had no more time for thought. He dodged the clumsy swipe at his head and buried his fist into his attacker's abdomen. He heard the breath whoosh out of his rival's lungs as he straightened up, slightly behind the taller man, and jabbed an elbow hard into his back. The other man crashed to his knees, but was able to swing the baton around and catch Eliot sharply across the thigh.

The hitter backed off as the other man rushed to his feet and barreled at him, swinging the staff wildly. On one of the follow through strokes, Eliot grabbed the man's beefy forearm and let himself fall onto his back, pulling the man down and then kicking him hard in the midsection, throwing him over his head and into the invisible electric fence.

His foe howled as the electricity snapped through him, and desperately rolled back towards Eliot. The Specialist stood back, away from the blind swings of the staff. His opponent gained his feet and warily circled. Eliot could see that his rival had expected an easy win because Eliot was so much smaller than he was, and he could see the man quickly revising his earlier assumptions. Suddenly the man charged in close, the staff blurring in his hands as he tried to pummel Eliot. The hitter was hard pressed to dodge the hits, and was forced to block some on upraised arms. There was a lot of power behind the hits, and he could feel welts rising on his forearms.

He took the only way out that he could see, taking a hard hit on the right shoulder to force his way close to the other fighter where the staff was ineffective. His fists were a blur as he smashed them into the other man's stomach and ribcage, forcing him back again and again, finally unleashing a fierce uppercut to the jaw. The fighter fell back onto the sand, moaning and clutching his stomach.

Eliot fell back a bit, massaging his aching shoulder. The blow had nearly been enough to crack his clavicle, and it would be a bitch to move his arm for a day or two.

Surprisingly, the other man staggered to his feet, leaning on the staff.

Eliot closed for a quick knockout, but the other man threw his fist up, scattering sand in Eliot's eyes. He jerked back, twisting, howling as the sand bit into his eyes, and was thrown to the ground with a forceful tackle to his midsection. He landed on his right side and the breath was knocked out of him as the other fighter landed on top of him. His opponent jammed the staff across his throat, forcing the collar deep into Eliot's windpipe. Now choking for air, Eliot desperately threw his arms back, hands grabbing for any hold he could get. Unable to grab a hold of anything, he twisted his hips and managed to get one leg around the larger man's waist. Disregarding the vicious pull against his ribs, he wrenched out of the other man's grasp and managed to slither away, kicking his opponent hard in the face as he did.

Gasping and coughing, he crab walked backwards, landing heavily on his butt. His opponent was groaning as he held his broken jaw, but amazingly attempting to get up again.

'What's with this guy, why won't he just stay down?' Eliot wondered.

Eliot staggered to his feet and as the other man started to rise, jumped into the air and drove his fist down into the other man's face, force and gravity lending him a powerful punch.

The fighter collapsed in the dust, writhing minutely.

Eliot backed off, waiting again.

After a moment or two, the handlers entered the ring again. Eliot was locked to the poles and his hands cuffed as the other keepers checked his rival. Through the roaring in his ears, Eliot could hear the controller ask the fighter a question, but didn't hear an answer. The controller then stood up, pulled out a handgun and calmly shot the fighter in the head as Eliot jerked in surprise.

Two of the controllers hauled away the body in the midst of the crowd's cheering, and the third handed the staff to one of Eliot's keepers.

'Guess I got a weapon, after all,' Eliot thought muzzily.

Eliot was allowed to rest for ten minutes, drinking water from a plastic bottle and sloshing a bit over his head and into his eyes to try to rinse the sand out. He wasn't sure why they were still here, since the 'other side's' two fighters had been defeated. He was aware of Rick's wary scrutiny of him, but ignored it.

Before he was done with the water, Eliot and Rick were both led to the edge of the arena. The hitter sighed inwardly as the reason why they were still here became clear.

The two men were brought into the ring, and he poles and cuffs were released. Eliot was handed the staff. Rick chose the nun-chucks from his previous opponent from his array of weapons, leaving the knife. Eliot assumed it was because of the staff he held; Rick wanted to be able to hit Eliot from a distance, rather than have to fight close with him.

Both men circled each other as they felt the fence activated once again.

Rick charged at Eliot, nun-chucks spinning madly in a figure-eight pattern. 'Great,' Eliot thought with regret, 'and I was just beginning to like the guy.' The hitter backtracked as his opponent advanced, searching for a break in the blurring pattern. He feinted to the right, and swung around Rick as he lunged. Slipping past the nun-chucks, Eliot darted the staff under Rick's right arm and behind his head, forcing him into a headlock. The taller man swiftly rammed his head back, catching Eliot on the bridge of his nose, but the Specialist refused to flinch. Having failed to make Eliot release him with the headbutt, he swung the nun-chuck above his head and flung it violently into Eliot's back. The hitter arched with pain as the end slammed across his ribs, but refused to let go. He wanted this to end quickly.

As the blood poured down his face, Eliot tightened his arms until the veins in his forearms bulged. Rick's face turned reddish purple, and finally he sagged in Eliot's arms.

Eliot stood back, hoping against hope that Rick would be allowed to live, but his dispassionate handlers put a bullet in his brain and unceremoniously handed the nun-chucks to the hitter's keepers as they chained Eliot and dragged him off to the waiting truck.

The truck bounced across the desert, tires churning in the sand as Eliot tried to ignore the burning aches in his shoulder and back. His hands had been chained behind his back again right after the fight, so he was unable to stop the blood that trickled from his nose. Instead he just tilted his head back against the wall of the truck and tried to breathe through his mouth.

A half hour later, with brilliant pinks and purples heralding the dawn, they arrived back at the mine and Eliot was led back into darkness to the cell. As expected, Jack and Bud were there, as well as a new arrival. Eliot surreptitiously scrutinized the new man as he was once again locked to the wall. He was tall and well-built as usual, with a cruel look in his eye. This one may not be a professional, Eliot judged, but he was a killer just the same.

"Welcome back, Shorty," Jack said humorlessly.

Eliot said nothing as he sat on the floor and ate the wrapped sandwich that was waiting for him, ignoring the other men's eyes.

"So," the newcomer snarled, "these two tell me we're in a fight club. I can't wait to kick your pretty little ass."

Eliot continued to ignore the others and sat back, resting his head against the wall.

"What, too scared to answer me, little man?" the new rival continued to taunt.

Eliot finally looked up and glared at the other man, letting some of his ferocity leak into his eyes. A little stunned, the man quieted a bit, and Eliot took the chance to close his eyes again and rest.

An hour later, Bud and Jack were removed from the cell. Eliot's new cellmate ranted and raved about how many fights he had been in, how many people he had beaten up, and how he had probably killed a few. Eliot listened with half an ear, paying attention only to the few bits and pieces he thought would be relevant in dealing with this punk. Although the man was large and strong, if his stories were anything to go by, he wasn't very bright. Either that or he just really liked the sound of his own voice.

Eliot, however, did not, and after a short while, decided to ignore him completely and sleep. Unfortunately, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and back where the nun-chucks had hit was harder to do. He shifted more than once in his sleep, trying to find a position that wasn't sore. He ruminated that he was becoming more 'housebroken' than in the past, because just before he fell asleep he found himself yearning for a long, hot shower to wash away all the dust and dirt from his aching body.

A few hours after that, Jack returned, sporting new bruises and abrasions. Eliot nodded to him as he entered, and watched as he was chained to the wall again. They were given their sandwiches and bottles of water, and the door was locked.

"I tell you, man," Jack sighed, "I don't know how much longer I can do this."

"Hang in there, Jack..." Eliot started to say.

"Hey man, if you're gonna buy the farm, I'll be the one holdin' the deed!" Loudmouth crowed, happy to hear his own voice again.

Eliot arched a brow and looked at Jack with a long-suffering gaze, and his gaze was returned. Neither man was too happy with their new roommate, and each was eager to permanently silence him.

When the door was again opened, their ranks filled to four once more, the newest addition taking Bud's place on the wall. The newest man was dragged into position and locked, and neither Jack nor Eliot made any comments. Jack seemed so despondent at this stage that he didn't even make any lame jokes anymore. Eliot stayed silent as well, but Loudmouth flapped his jaw enough for the both of them.

Eliot and the others stood when the cell door was opened and more food and water was tossed at them. They ate, and Eliot and Jack both tried to stretch the stiffness out of their muscles as well as they could, considering their chains. Loudmouth sneered at them as they did, and their fourth was just starting to move around as the drugs wore off.

The door opened about a half hour later, and three handlers entered with their remote and poles. This time Eliot didn't resist, having no desire to be shocked senseless again. The two men attached the poles to his collar, with the third standing watch, and led him out, all to the accompaniment of Loudmouth's ever-present jeering.

"Honestly, I wish they hadn't picked that mouthy sonuvabitch," one of the guards sighed. "Hey, do us a favor and kill him for us, would you?" he asked Eliot as they walked out to the waiting trucks.

"Gladly," Eliot growled his breath as the guards laughed.

He sat in the truck, waiting for the keepers to haul Loudmouth out to the other truck, and was satisfied to see that he was stumbling a bit, the shock having (hopefully) been left on a little longer than it had in Eliot's case.

'Serves him right,' Eliot thought to himself.

Another bumpy, dust choked ride out to the arena, and Eliot was faced with another bustling crowd of blood-thirsty rich people who wanted to watch others get their hands dirty.

This time, Eliot's fight was first, so that Loudmouth could ostensibly see how the fights worked. Eliot was led to the center of the ring, unchained, and presented with the weapons he had won thus far: the staff and nun-chucks. Knowing a little more of nun-chucks than staff fighting, he chose the twin staves and stepped back as he saw his opponent choose a long bladed knife.

This time the fight was taking place in the late afternoon, and the temperature in the desert had already climbed well into the 90's. Sweat started beading on his forehead as the handlers retreated and the perimeter fence was electrified.

Eliot held the nun-chucks in the classic pose, with one under his right arm and the other clasped loosely in his right fist. His opponent started to circle him, feinting in every so often and testing the hitter's defense. Every time he did though, he was met with a dangerous swing of the nun-chucks. Eliot wanted to keep his exertion level to a minimum for this first fight, knowing from the sweat sliding down his spine that the heat and dryness of the day would leech any moisture it could from him. He studied his rival as the man circled: a few inches taller than Eliot, with a lean runner's type of build, rather than beefy and muscle bound. Clearly the owners of this club wanted to be 'equal opportunity kidnappers'.

Eliot let the other man round to the right, and struck out like a rattler with a powerful combination of strikes to the arm, side and knee. His opponent managed to keep his hold on the knife, but he staggered back from the strikes nonetheless, his knee obviously damaged.

Limping now, he tried desperately to avoid the swings of the whirring nun-chucks as Eliot advanced on him. He pulled out a page from the hitter's own library and took a blow to the ribs in order to get inside the range of the nun-chucks and swung the knife in a wild arc from Eliot's shoulder to abdomen. The knife penetrated Eliot's shirt, but he jerked back quickly so the blade only ran a shallow line down his chest, slashing his t-shirt open, but not causing much damage. The wound bled freely, but Eliot ignored it to concentrate on his enemy. Now that the other man was close, he quickly wrapped the chain of the nun-chucks around his opponents' throat and twisted viciously, snapping his neck.

As the body fell, bets were again won and lost, and Eliot began to become a favorite of many of the betters.

Unknowing and uncaring, Eliot waited until his controllers came to check the body and lock his chains again, adding the knife to his arsenal.

The perimeter fence was suspended as Eliot left the fighting ring and Loudmouth entered, full of cocky arrogance. He aimed a derogatory slur towards Eliot, but the hitter paid no attention to the overconfident jibes.

Eliot sat at the edge of the arena and accepted the bottle of water his handlers gave him. Between fights their hands were locked in front of them, so they could drink as they chose and tend to their hurts as best they could. The hitter drank the water slowly, savoring the cool wetness as it slid down his throat. His t-shirt was in tatters, and while he bemoaned the loss of the fabric that would keep the sun's rays from burning, he ripped it the rest of the way off so that the loose fabric wouldn't interfere in his next fight.

Taking careful stock of his physical health, he was satisfied. His right shoulder still ached abominably from his first fight, and he surreptitiously massaged it, hopeful that the fighters in the ring weren't watching. The slash across his chest burned as sweat dripped across the fresh wound, and he used a meager amount of his water to dampen the shreds of his t-shirt and dab the salty moisture from the area. The blood loss was minimal and already clotted; he was sure that even if he had access to medical attention, the slash wouldn't even need stitches.

As he rested Eliot watched Loudmouth and his opponent circling around the fighting area, silently cheering every time the rival made contact with the length of heavy chain that was his chosen weapon. Before long, it became apparent to the Specialist that Loudmouth was going to win. His opponent was unused to the brutal sun and heat of the Nevada desert, and was showing signs of heatstroke as he continued to swing the heavy chain towards his rival. Loudmouth wasn't very skilled in avoiding the chain; more than once it connected with a painful-sounding smack of metal against flesh. Although pummeled by the blows of the chain, Loudmouth continued to taunt his enemy into more and more foolish actions, until finally nearly the entire audience, including Eliot, knew that it was only a matter of time before Loudmouth was able to grasp the chain and choke his opponent with it.

The moment came, and he hung on for longer than was necessary, drawing out the moment of his victory and milking it for all the glory he could get. He let the body fall, and like some over-zealous gladiator, raised his arms with the chains encircling his wrists, basking in the cheers of the crowd.

The handlers entered the ring, and, utterly foolishly, Loudmouth tried to charge them. The man with the remote (gleefully, Eliot thought) pressed the trigger, sending Loudmouth to the dust in a stunned convulsion. He was chained again, dragged to the edge of the perimeter, and doused with his bottle of water, the bottle then thrown at his face.

Eliot just sat watching the escapades with amusement, knowing that the more trouble his opponent made, the less trouble he would be when he entered the ring again.

Ten minutes went by, and the two men were again led into the arena. Loudmouth looked slightly puzzled that he was so soon put into another match, and blanched slightly as Eliot chose the knife for his weapon and turned to him, smiling widely, death in his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Eliot turned to his opponent, smiling widely, death in his eyes.

The man across from him grabbed at the chain that was handed to him, and without even waiting for the handlers to remove themselves from the arena, charged at Eliot. Taken a little off guard, the hitter danced backwards, dodging the uneven swings of the heavy log chain. His rival was unaccustomed to the long, unwieldy weapon, and the clumsy strokes telegraphed the fact to Eliot. That didn't make them easier to avoid, however, and the shorter man had to scramble to duck under the dangerous chain as it flew over his head.

Eliot took advantage of a particularly awkward swing and darted in during the follow through when both of Loudmouth's arms were occupied with hauling the chain back to a starting position. The hitter launched himself at the other's unprotected ribs, thrusting his knife towards the man's abdomen. The knife sliced into flesh, but before Eliot could put much force behind it, a beefy arm slammed into the right side of his head and neck, throwing off his balance. He staggered back, trying to stay on his feet as the other fighter jerked his fist back, preparing for another round.

'Anytime, Nate,' Eliot thought as he stood swaying, blood dripping down his chin, '…anytime you wanna get me out of this mess, you can, but come on, man, make it soon.'

Eliot saw the meaty fist swinging towards his head but could not avoid it in time. The blackness that was hazing the edges of his vision filled with stars, and he felt his body slamming into the sand. He desperately tried to hang on to consciousness, because he knew that if he didn't stay awake, they would kill him.

Thrusting the pain to the back of his mind, he staggered up, surprising both his opponent and the spectators. Those that he assumed to be his supporters cheered madly as they saw their champion back on his feet.

The chain swung at him again, and this time Eliot was unable to dodge it completely. The end snapped against his left hip as he wildly flung himself backward. Agony blossomed in his side as he crumpled to the ground again, the pain flaring up his ribs and all the way down to his foot. Blood trickled over his waist and the skin around his hip started to swell and discolor immediately.

'That's gonna leave one hell of a bruise,' Eliot thought distractedly.

Unbelievably, Loudmouth took the time to mug for the crowd, giving Eliot a few moments to regroup. Obviously thinking he was in some trumped-up wrestling match instead of a fight to the death, the retrieval specialist's rival strode around Eliot as he lay panting on the sand, playing to the spectators and not paying much attention to him. Eliot gathered his strength and rose quietly as Loudmouth walked around, his back to the hitter. The crowd roared, and Loudmouth whipped around, preparing to swing the chain again, but Eliot caught it in one hand as the other buried the knife to the hilt into his enemy's chest. The two men stood for a few moments, the muscles in Eliot's arms and back trembling with fatigue, and then the taller man fell to the ground, his blood soaking into the desert sand.

Eliot, exhausted and sweating profusely, dropped to his knees.

The handlers entered the arena and pronounced Loudmouth dead, and his log chain was added to Eliot's growing arsenal. Eliot was hauled roughly to his feet, chained and collared once again, and led off to the truck, his fans cheering as they raked in their winnings.

Eliot barely registered the ride back to the mine shaft. He staggered as he wordlessly followed the guards to the cell and after he was chained back to the wall, slid down to the ground and fell into the darkness.

Hours later he roused, awakened by thirst. The bottle of water and sandwich was once again within his reach, but he could barely make himself move. He tried to reach out with his right hand, but the bone-deep ache in his shoulder made him moan.

"You can do it, Shorty," he heard Jack's voice. "Come on, man, wake up and drink that water, you gotta do it."

Eliot blinked, and he saw Jack sitting across from him, encouraging him with his voice.

"Why...why're you...helping..." his words ended with a cough.

"You tried to help me, that's why. Just returning the favor. Now drink, dammit!"

The hitter raised himself on shaky arms, bracing himself against the stony wall, and levered himself into a sitting position. Panting with the effort, he reached for the water and lifted the bottle to his cracked lips, trembling. The water slid down his dry throat, seeping into the cracks and chasms in his stomach. A little refreshed, he looked at the unappetizing sandwich. Forcing himself to pick it up and eat it, he chewed robotically on the food until he managed to finish most of it.

He leaned back against the wall again, and looked surreptitiously at the two newest men in the cell as he once more catalogued his hurts. They glanced back at him with shock and a little fear in their eyes as they looked at his wounds.

His right shoulder, back and left hip throbbed in time with the beat of his heart; the bruises that he could see were a deep, angry purple and black. The slash across his chest and the smaller cut on his hip were scabbed over and healing. His neck was stiff and the whole right side of his face felt swollen and sore. From the tenderness of the skin on his back and chest he knew he had a minor sunburn, but he took it seriously because he knew how dangerous sunburns and dehydration could be in the desert.

If left alone for even a few days, he knew he would heal, but he also knew that these fights were staged in roughly ten hour shifts, with the fighters taken out at every other shift. Having been unconscious for a few hours after being brought back to the cell, Eliot figured he had only about 16 hours to rest before he had to fight again. Groaning softly as he settled down on the ground again, he set his internal clock to rouse him in about eight to ten hours.

Eliot was sleeping so soundly he didn't even know when the two other fighters were taken for their trials, and was unaware when one was brought back and another newbie hauled in.

Nine hours after he laid himself on the ground he struggled toward consciousness again. More water and food had been given to them, and he once more forced himself to eat. He was feeling a little stronger, so he stubbornly ignored the stabbing pain and forced himself to move his arms and legs, stretching the abused muscles and joints. Massaging his shoulder and knees, he turned his mind inward, working and worrying at the problem of escape. He hated to admit it to himself, but he wasn't sure any longer if the team would be able to find him.

At least, not in time.


	4. Chapter 4

Eliot hated to admit it to himself, but he wasn't sure any longer if the team would be able to find him.

At least, not in time.

 

 

Hours went by as he loosened up and stretched his muscles, trying his hardest to figure out some plan of escape. During previous captivities he had made it a habit to break out often, scoping out the terrain, guard shifts, and anything else that was relevant to his larger, final escape. This time, however, he didn't need to break out to scope the terrain; they let him out all the time as they took him out to the trucks, giving him ample opportunity to 'case the joint'. Each time he went out he had studied his surroundings, the guards, the machinery, everything he had seen. Each time had been relatively similar; the guards had the routes and procedures down to a science. The problem with a routine was, well, it was routine. It didn't change.

Eliot mulled the information he had over and over in his mind, trying to work it into an escape plan. Unfortunately, his handlers came for him before any ideas had presented themselves.

The hitter and other prisoner rode in silence to the arena. Eliot absorbed all of the information the early hour brought to him. It was about 2am, he figured, so his sunburn wouldn't trouble him, and the cool of the previous night would help to invigorate him. He inhaled deeply, filtering out the diesel fumes from the truck and the heavy dust, breathing in the sweet early dew and the scent of cacti. If he made a break from it at some point, the knowledge that there was plentiful cacti around could turn the tide in his favor, since cactus held inner reserves of the water he would need.

As they drove up, Eliot was a bit surprised to see a helicopter sitting at the edge of the cars and SUV's, a small knot of people obviously fawning over the riders of the chopper. At this distance, he couldn't make out any details past the fact that it was a tall man and two women, and then his sight was obscured by the cheering crowds.

All too soon they arrived at the fighting area, and the two fighters were led to the edge of the ring. Like before, Eliot was chosen to fight first. As he entered the arena, he got his first look at his new opponent. The brute was over seven feet tall, with corded muscles covering his entire frame. The two men stepped to the center, and Eliot chose his nun-chucks again. The other man hefted a stout single bladed ax with a four foot oak handle.

Eliot took a deep breath, letting all thoughts empty from his mind. This latest adversary was a challenge, but Eliot knew that if he kept his wits about him, he would be able to bring him down.

The first swing of the ax was forceful and well placed, but Eliot wasn't anywhere near where he had been a moment ago. He darted like a blur around the huge man, whipping the nun-chucks out to connect solidly with the back of a knee. The big man howled and swung the ax around again, but again, Eliot was not there. All of his life Eliot had been the smallest in a fight, and he had learned early that his strength, aside from his brick-hard punches, was his tenacity and speed. When larger thugs tried to hit him, he simply avoided getting hit. This fight was no different. He knew that one hit from the ax, even a glancing one, would end the fight, and not in his favor.

Dodging the ax once again, this time he jabbed the twin sticks into the larger man's ribs as he darted past, satisfied when he heard a rib crack. Unfortunately, just as he was about to turn and follow through with another lightning fast attack, his foot caught in a hollow on the ground, slightly twisting his ankle and ruining his turn. He landed on his bruised left hip and howled at the sudden pain that shot through his abdomen.

Rolling onto his back, he saw the ax cleaving the air towards his head, and had just enough time to bring the nun-chucks up to deflect the blow. The twin sticks shattered with the impact of the blade, but it was enough to turn the blade so it met the sand directly to the left of Eliot's face. The swing of the ax brought the larger man into close proximity to the hitter, and Eliot planted his left foot on the ground and savagely kicked his right leg upward, his blow solidly connecting with his opponent's crown jewels. The big man's face turned beet red, then purple, as the vicious pain assaulted him. Eliot brought his legs back and again shot out, this time connecting with his chest, propelling the behemoth backwards.

Palming a shard of wood that was all that was left of his nun-chucks, Eliot pounced on the man who was writhing in the sand. Too late he realized that his enemy had slightly exaggerated his agony, as a beefy hand shot out and grabbed Eliot around the neck. The hand squeezed and Eliot struggled for air, black spots starting to dance around his vision. Sound grew distant, and a roaring began to fill his ears.

The hand brought Eliot towards his opponent, and the big man was saying something. Eliot waited until he was in range, and rammed the sliver into the man's eye, driving it into his brain and killing him instantly.

The hand relaxed and Eliot slumped over the brute's massive chest, heaving and panting as he dragged air into his lungs. Hands grabbed him and carelessly tossed him onto the sand as the handlers verified the death of the other man.

Collaring the hitter, the guards once again brought him to the edge of the ring. The other prisoner's wide eyes regarded Eliot with fear, and he had a feeling that this was one man he wouldn't have to face in the ring. A small group of people had gathered near the benches where Eliot sat, although he had his back to them and was ignoring them, concentrating on controlling his breathing as he slowly drank his water.

Then a silken, cultured British voice floated to his ears. It was achingly familiar, and Eliot's breathing hitched as he listened to their conversation.

"...sure you understand that what I want, I get," the woman's voice purred, the purr wrapped around unmistakable steel.

"I know that, Your Highness, um, but I can't do that...not right now." The man stammered. "It's against the rules to..."

"I. Want. That. Fighter. I will have him. Now, his fight is over, so let's see what I'm getting, shall we?" The first voice rolled over the argument and imperiously commanded the other to follow her. Eliot heard footsteps behind him and then she was in front of him, eyes coolly assessing him. He knew she was critically cataloguing his injuries, planning for his needs during the rescue, but he also knew she was running a con, one that he had to figure out before he screwed it up. He looked behind her and saw Hardison's eyes grow wide as he looked at the cuts and bruises marring their hitter's chest.

"Handsome enough, that's good. Can't have my fighters with scarred faces, you know," Sophie remarked. "Those bruises though, tsk, tsk, I can't have my merchandise marked so badly, and that slash on his chest! That is simply not allowed. He'll have to have a lot of rest time in order to remove those." She leaned in, her hand tilting his head to one side, ostensibly 'checking her merchandise'. Eliot nearly gasped as he felt her slip a comm into his ear.

"Your Highness...uh, he's a fighter. Our fighter. You just can't simply buy him for your, um, fighting team..."

"I can, and I will," she retorted sharply as she stood and waved her hand. "Money is no object. Get me the people who can make this happen. Now."

Another man now stepped in to confer with the arguing man. They exchanged a heated conversation in low voices, then the newcomer spoke.

"My Lady Rothfort-Danube, the current fight is non-negotiable. He will have one more round, and if he survives," Sophie's eyes widened a bit at this statement, "he will be taken back to the holding pens. Once there, my employer will contact you with the contract requirements."

"I do not like being denied," she voiced threateningly as she turned to glare at the two men. "I will have your hides for this!"

Eliot worried that she was going over the top just a bit, but the two men cowered a bit even as they stood their ground.

Silence reigned for a few moments; the only sound that of the current fight and the cheering audience. Finally, Sophie pursed her lips angrily and replied, "Very well, but if he is harmed any more than when he leaves the arena, the contract will be harshly adjusted. In fact, I demand that when he returns to your 'pens' that he receives medical attention. Do I make myself clear?"

The two men nodded at her deadly serious statements, and then the conversation was ended, and Eliot's next fight was about to begin.


	5. Chapter 5

"I do not like being denied," she voiced threateningly as she turned to glare at the two men. "I will have your hides for this!"

Eliot clung to those words as he entered the arena for the second time that night. He raised his arms to brush his hair from his face, covertly securing the comm more firmly in his ear. He felt almost giddy with relief at the familiar feel of the ear wig and the knowledge that the team was with him and working to get him free. He heard Nate start to say something, but sub-vocally growled "Not now," as the handlers led him to the center of the ring, watching his opponent carefully. The handlers must have assumed he was growling wordlessly at his opponent, because they made no move to question him.

He was a little confused with this round. Earlier he had noticed a young boy, around 14 or so, sitting next to this fighter. Every once in a while, the fighter would cuff the boy on the back of the head, and the boy would back away, only to be yanked back to his position next to the larger man on the bench. Now Eliot saw that the young teen was chained to the fighter. Was the boy also a fighter? Was he some sort of slave? What role did this child have?

Pulling his attention back to the present, Eliot saw his opponent had chosen brass knuckles. Knowing he didn't have the upper body strength needed for either the heavy ax or the log-chain, Eliot chose the knife.

The handlers of both men unlocked their chains, and the opposing keepers led the boy away. It looked like the teen was grateful to be away from the fighter. Eliot had noticed the way the child had flinched every time the other man moved suddenly, and cowered as far away as his chains would let him. The hitter also saw a masked pain in the boy's eyes, pain that had him smoldering inside if what he suspected was true.

Letting that anger fuel his strength, Eliot dodged the flurry of fists that came at him the moment the handlers were out of the arena. Distantly he heard yells and cheers from the crowd, and soft encouragements from the ear wig. Ignoring all external sounds, he instead listened to the rush of blood flowing through his veins, centering himself. The fists came at him from every direction, the halogen lights from the edge of the arena glinting off the brass knuckles that encased the beefy fingers of his opponent. He twisted and dodged every blow aimed at his face, managing to avoid most of those aimed at his midsection as well. A few connected though, and those felt like a jackhammer driven into his stomach. Eliot refused to let the pain show, however, because he didn't want his foe to see him injured, and also because he didn't want Sophie and the others see it.

For long moments, Eliot simply danced along the edges of the punches his opponent threw, holding the knife in an easy back-handed grip, studying his enemy. This man was a back alley bully, no doubt; from the sneer on his face he expected to mop the ring with the hitter's face. The more Eliot dodged, however, the quicker the sneer turned into a glare. The blows became more controlled and calculated, and every once in a while Eliot was forced to retaliate with a swing of the knife or a left hook of his own.

On the next swing of his knife, it happened.

The other fighter leaned back to avoid the slice, but reached in and grabbed the back of Eliot's wrist, twisting his arm, hard. Eliot let out a strangled scream as his abused right shoulder popped out of the socket. His opponent took the opportunity to slide his left arm under Eliot's and hooked his hand behind the hitter's neck, locking him in a half-nelson. Letting go of Eliot's now useless right arm, he plowed his fist into Eliot's back and ribs. Eliot heard his ribs grinding together in ways they shouldn't and felt two of them snap. He strained his neck to force his opponent's left wrist back. Either his wrist was naturally weak, or his attention was more on pummeling Eliot's ribs and kidneys, but the hitter was able to force his head up. Lightening fast, he ducked his head under again like a turtle. The other man wasn't expecting the move, and didn't keep his hold tight enough and his wrist slid right over the hitter's head. Twisting in the other fighter's grip, Eliot aimed a backhand elbow at his foe's face. It connected with a satisfying crunch, and he was able to break away and back off to give himself room to breathe.

The voices of his teammates clamored in his ear.

"Shut up so I can concentrate, dammit!" he cried in near frustration under his breath. His desperation must have communicated itself to them because they all suddenly fell silent.

His right arm dangled uselessly from his side as he hugged it to himself. Surreptitiously he exchanged the knife from his right to his left hand.

It was barely quick enough because the bully came barreling towards him, blood dripping into his eyes where Eliot had backhanded him. Eliot winced and turned his right side into the tackle, knowing it would hurt like hell, but needing to keep his left hand free.

He was right. It did hurt like hell. Fiery pain blossomed at his shoulder and chest as the body of his adversary barreled into him, pinning his right arm to his side and throwing him to the ground. The Specialist landed hard, nearly all of his breath knocked out of him with the weight of over 200 plus pounds landing on top of him. Stars edged his vision and bile rose in his throat as he struggled to breathe.

The force of the blow knocked the knife from his grip, and to keep the other man from noticing, Eliot smacked his head hard onto the bridge of his opponent's nose as his fingers desperately scrabbled for the blade. Tears sprang up in his enemy's eyes as blood gushed from his nose. The stars in Eliot's vision grew and a blackness started to narrow his sight, but then his fingertips slid over the knife's edge, slicing them. Allowing that minute, bright pain to rouse him, his focus sharpened and he wrapped his fingers around the handle, swinging the knife up and burying it in the side of his foe's neck, severing the carotid artery.

Blood splattered onto his face and neck as he struggled to roll the body off of himself. His breath came in great hitching gasps. He heard Sophie whisper to the others what had happened; he could only surmise that she had been doing it throughout the fight.

Eliot heaved himself onto one knee, his aching body protesting as he forced himself to his feet. The officials came to check the body, and chain him again. He roared in pain when they grabbed his right arm to chain his hands behind his back, and he heard mutterings of, "undamaged merchandise," "price goes down," and "won't pay,".

"Hold on, Eliot, just hold on," someone whispered in his ear.

The mutterings ceased when they finally just grabbed his left hand instead. Muzzy thoughts flickered around his head when his wrist was chained to the fearful young teenager's, but he didn't have the coherency to worry about it right then.

He stumbled as they led him towards the truck, his left hand going up to grab the pole that was attached to the front of his collar. In his peripheral vision he saw the third of his keepers instantly bring up the remote, probably thinking to shock him into submission again, but the man hesitated as he saw that Eliot had simply grabbed the pole for support. The hitter's eyes fluttered as his step faltered, his grip on the pole tightened. The keepers kept a wary eye on the hitter, trying to assure themselves that it wasn't an act.

They stopped suddenly and Eliot would have pitched forward had it not been for the poles attached to his collar.

Sophie was standing in front of the men, a glower fit to incinerate on her face.

"What in God's name have you allowed to happen?" she asked in a hiss of barely concealed rage. Eliot was taken aback; he had never heard her so royally pissed before, and could hardly believe he was the cause.

"I thought I made it perfectly clear that he wasn't to be further harmed." Her words were clipped and her face stony. "Do you really think that the offer I made can seriously be upheld after this...this...!?" She threw her hands in the air and whirled to stalk away.

In his wounded and exhausted state, Eliot nearly fell over. She was walking away?

All of the pain he had endured to survive this hideous game, all of the wondering and worrying whether the team had even noticed he was missing, and all of the fear, yes, fear, that had ridden in his stomach for the last few days nearly made him choke.

"no...,"

His tortured whisper was heard over the comms and Nate immediately spoke up.

"Eliot, Eliot, it's ok, she has to make it look real. They want that money, they'll take the bait," Nate's reassuring voice tried to make him understand. The Specialist's logical brain would have seen the reason in that statement immediately, but the logic had been beaten past submission. Only the hurt and weary young man remained, and he felt humiliation and betrayal seep into his chest, taking up residence under the broken ribs.

He tuned the conversations out, standing in the chill of the desert night, shivering with cold and loneliness.

He was going into shock.


	6. Chapter 6

Eliot stood in the chill of the desert night, shivering with cold and loneliness.

He was going into shock.

Eliot's mind didn't register most of the ride back to the caverns. He didn't feel the boy's body shivering next to his, or hear his frightened whimpers. He didn't feel the sharp edges of bone grinding together in his ribcage as he breathed, or the searing pain of his dislocated shoulder every time the truck hit a bit of uneven ground. He didn't feel the sweat mingling with blood as it dripped down the side of his face. He didn't hear his heart hammering in his chest or the blood thrumming in his ears as his body struggled to stay conscious. He didn't hear the team's ever increasing attempts to convince him that Sophie was just acting out the con.

Eliot's shock was not only physical, but mental as well. He had heard Sophie refuse him, and that was where his brain shut off.

When the truck stopped at the mine entrance, Eliot staggered to his feet to jump off the tailgate like every other time, only to be held back by his guards. To his surprise, two large crates were brought to the back of the truck, forming a crude sort of steps. Equally as surprising, his handlers allowed him to set his own pace navigating the steps and down the hall to the cells instead of pushing and pulling him as they usually did. The young boy followed without a word, his head hung down the entire way.

After Eliot was unhooked from the collar and reattached to the chain in his cell, two more guards entered with a box and jug of water. They put these on the ground near him and left, locking the door behind them.

Sub-consciously Eliot heard the jeers and arguments of the other prisoners, but he had to listen to his body's demands before it was too late to do anything about it. The first problem, and the most painful at the moment, was the dislocated shoulder. He'd had dislocated shoulders in the past, and knew that he had to relocate it as soon as possible before it swelled up too much to move. Eliot faced the rock wall and steeled himself for what he had to do. He manipulated the shoulder with his left hand to feel exactly where the dislocation was, then set his forehead on the rock and took a deep breath before he slammed his shoulder into the stone, snapping the joint agonizingly back into place. A white hot burn flared across his shoulders and he moaned, sinking to his knees. The boy, still chained wrist to wrist, was also dragged to his knees, but he pulled himself as far away as possible.

Within his muzzy, cloudy mind where thoughts slipped in and out like eels, Eliot heard exclamations of surprise, joy, and fervent conversation from someone, no, several someones, in the prison cell. Closer, in his seemingly cotton-stuffed ears, he heard vaguely familiar voices that sounded concerned and fearful. Confused by the conflicting emotions, he started to drift away, but a hesitant hand on his back tugged him back to reality.

He looked over, and saw the young teen handing him the bottle of water. He slowly attempted to reach for it, but a sharp stab of pain in his shoulder and ribs stopped him. He closed his eyes and grimaced in pain, and was shocked to feel that the bottle had been lifted to his lips. He opened his mouth and took a few swallows, not arguing when the water was taken away.

When Eliot opened his eyes again, the boy was sitting next to him, still shivering, but not quite trying to bolt like a terrified rabbit. The youngster had opened the box the jailers had left and found not only food, but bandages, ointments and aspirin as well. Apparently Sophie's demands for medical attention were being taken seriously, to a point.

Sophie.

She had been pulling a con.

A con. Of course.

She hadn't left him, hadn't refused him, she was playing a part.

If it wouldn't have hurt like a sonuvabitch, Eliot would have smacked his head into the wall for being such an ass.

Finally realizing in his heart as well as his brain that the con was still being played out, Eliot found a small reserve of strength. Pulling himself fully into reality, he heard the rest of the team clamoring for his attention.

"Enough," he half-coughed behind his hand, "I'm back."

He heard exclamations of relief from them, and then they quieted down, ready to listen to anything Eliot could give them for information.

Now wholly aware of his surroundings once again, he looked around the cell with unclouded eyes.

He noticed that two of the prisoners were, once more, new to the cell. One had the look of a gangbanger from the east side, bandana tied low over his forehead and jeans falling ridiculously off his hips; the other was a dock worker, his tanned and leathery face and hard calloused hands a testament to his hard work.

"Eh, finally decided to join us again, huh?" Eliot recognized that voice: Jack.

Eliot turned to face his old cellmate and was shocked to see a huge, but tentative grin on Jack's face. Eliot was pretty sure it had absolutely nothing to do with him being back. When he saw Jack's eyes slant to the boy sitting next to the hitter, he knew that was true.

"Ya brought my boy here," the other man said as his face darkened, his voice dangerously soft. "I oughta kill you for that."

"Pa," the boy whispered, "Ain't his fault..."

Jack managed to look chastised as he lowered his head a little, "Yeah, I guess I know that. Just never thought you'd be brought here, of all places."

The young teen shrank from the words, managing to pull even farther away from the hitter, seeming to fold in on himself.

"What's wrong with you, Jesse? What happened? How did you get mixed up into this?"

The barrage of questions seemed to hammer at the boy, and he hugged himself even closer to the wall.

Eliot knew the signs: the withdrawn and fearful looks, the trembling, the bruises...Oh, the bruises he knew well. Someone had abused this boy, probably the previous fighter from the interaction he had witnessed. The hitter could read the story of the abuse, both physical and probably sexual as well, from the bruises that marred the young child's body. In his mind he replayed the events of the last few hours, focusing on the teen, and did not like the answer his unflinching investigation produced.

His eyes locked onto Jack's and he shook his head minutely. The other fighter seemed to understand the message, and though he desperately wanted to know why the youngster was here, he recognized the current need to not inundate the child with questions he was not ready to answer.

Eliot reached carefully for the box that had been left, opened the still-sealed container of aspirin, and washed two of them down with water. He wished he could risk more, but the constant need for vigilance dictated otherwise. He unwrapped the sandwich and forced himself to eat half, even though the food sat uneasily in his stomach as it roiled in reaction to the pain that coursed through his body.

The hitter started to hand the other half of the sandwich to the boy, but a terrified jerk of his head made Eliot just set the meal on the ground before him, and backed off as much as he could. He waited until Jesse grabbed the sandwich from the dirt and wolfed it down before he slowly moved.

"I'm sorry kiddo, but I'm gonna hafta move to wrap my ribs." He waited for a response, but received none. Shrugging inwardly, he slowly wound a wide bandage around his torso as tightly as he could manage, the operation made somewhat awkward because of the boys wrist still chained to his. Finally he had the bandage secured to his satisfaction, and he began to slather the antibacterial ointment into the worst of his cuts, namely the ones on his chest and hip. They had scabbed over the previous day, but the last fight had opened them again and they ached abominably.

Satisfied that he had treated his wounds as well as he could, he leaned against the cool rock to relax. He wanted to be able to tell Jack and Jesse that a rescue was being planned, but he wasn't sure, in his exhausted and somewhat paranoid state, if there were listening devices planted throughout the cell. In the end, he decided to just try to reassure the two.

"You know we'll get out of here," he said. There. That was acceptably vague.

"Yeah," Jack scoffed, "in a pine box, if we're lucky."

"No, we just gotta hold on," the Specialist insisted.

"You know something we don't?"

Eliot wrestled with the voices, both in his mind and in his ear, that argued for caution.

"Mebbe," was all he said before he let himself fall over the edge into blackness.

The next time he woke, it was to one of the jailers prodding his thigh with a tentative foot. It was almost as if they didn't want to hurt him. Then he remembered the 'deal', the one with Her Highness, the Lady Rothfort-Danube. Otherwise known as Sophie.

Hoping the deal had been accepted, signed and delivered, Eliot struggled to his knees, then wobbled to his feet, the boy still attached by his chain. He was quite unhappy when the collar was once again fastened around his neck, and he growled wordlessly.

His handlers were ignored in favor of the voice in his ear, that said, "Don't fight them Eliot, we're coming to take you home."


	7. Chapter 7

He was quite unhappy when the collar was once again fastened around his neck, and he growled wordlessly.

His handlers were ignored in favor of the voice in his ear that said, "Don't fight them Eliot, we're coming to take you home."

'Ya better damn well know what you're doin', Nate,' Eliot thought to himself. He didn't want to admit, even to himself, that one more fight might be beyond him.

He followed the handlers out of the mine shaft for what was hopefully the last time, and mounted the boxes into the back of the truck to wait. The young boy was still chained to his wrist and he sat nervously on the edge of the bench. Looking out into the dim night, he saw the gangbanger being loaded into the second truck before the tail gates were slammed shut and they were on their way.

"Easy, kid," Eliot whispered, "not much longer and we should be outta here, but you gotta trust me that I won't hurt you," he paused. "Not like that other bastard." His fears were justified as he saw the boy jerk a little at the mention of the previous fighter, and he sighed. "It's gonna be alright, kid, just hang in there," he said again.

The truck bounced and jolted into the desert, further than they had ever gone. When they finally halted and got out, Eliot looked out at the largest crowd he had ever seen. Fully two dozen guards were now on scene, obvious in their severe black suits and white wires leading from the necks into their ears, and the way they stationed themselves at each end of the arena made Eliot's warning system blare into Defcon four.

The sleek black helicopter was there again, on the edge of the field, surrounded by Hummers, Jags, BMW's and more million-dollar cars than he could list. The flood lights were on, and the arena seemed to be a little larger this time than in previous matches. More camera equipment was online, and speakers lined the edges as well. Eliot took all of this in, and whispered, "guys...this isn't feelin' right."

"We know," he heard Nate's voice, a reassuring presence in his ear. "Something is up, and we don't know what. The Lady Danube-Rothfort has been promised a 'gift', and it worries us."

"Don't worry man, we gotcha," Hardison piped in, "We gonna blow this popstand."

Eliot smiled wanly at Hardison's obvious attempt to cheer him up, but the worry still niggled away at the back of his mind.

The handlers led the fighters to each end as usual, this time holding both of them ready for the beginning fight.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he heard an announcer say, amplified by the huge sound system that had been added to the arena. 'What the hell?' he thought, 'When did this become such a production?'

Looking around, he finally found where Sophie was standing, with Hardison right beside her, Nate on the other side. He caught their eyes, and none of them knew what was going on.

"We have a very special treat for you tonight," the announcer continued. "The most honorable, our Highness the Lady Danube-Rothfort is with us tonight," a spotlight suddenly lit up the area where Sophie stood. Eliot had to hand it to her; she didn't miss a beat. Raising her hand in a sophisticated and utterly royal wave, she smiled condescendingly and waved to the crowd, even though he knew she was taken aback at being singled out. The crowd applauded politely, as fitting her station and theirs, and quickly quieted as the spotlight faded.

"And for her enjoyment, there will be a special match tonight, as she is interested in obtaining only the best fighter for her own matches overseas. Therefore, the fight tonight will be a four-way simultaneous elimination match!"

The crowd roared its approval as Eliot's heart started trip-hammering. He saw shock on Nate and Hardison's faces, and outrage and fear on Sophie's as she struggled to maintain her role. She started to move to the side, but three huge bodyguards stopped her, politely forcing her and the others back to their places. Eliot heard the conversation through his com.

"This is completely unacceptable! I do not want the winner, I want him!" She yelled, pointing over the arena floor at Eliot.

The guards said nothing, and Sophie kept ranting in her royal persona, but was unable to make them move.

The handlers of all four of the fighters then manhandled their charges into the ring, presenting four weapons for them to choose from. The gangbanger chose a knife; the two on the other side chose a set of brass knuckles and a mace, leaving Eliot with a crowbar.

The poles were unlocked, and the handlers withdrew, taking the boy with them. A little charge went through the fighters as the perimeter fence went up, and the four men started circling each other. Eliot and the other seasoned fighter with the mace backed off a little and the two new fighters, both rival gangbangers, went at it furiously. The kid with the knife had an obvious advantage, and the fight didn't last very long before he buried the knife in his enemy's ribs. The other man went down and didn't get up, nor did the fight stop as it normally did when one went down.

Now the three men circled in earnest, each feinting in and out, testing the other two.

"Eliot, be careful!" he heard Sophie exclaim. He scoffed. Did she really think he was going to have a tea ceremony or something?

"We'll get you out, Eliot," Nate said.

"Hang in there, Sparky," Parker piped in.

Once again, the hitter ignored the voices of his teammates in favor of concentrating on the fight at hand. Reaching deep into his rapidly dwindling reserves, he swung the crowbar back and forth, fending off the running attack of the man with the mace. He was tall and thin, but had a strong, swimmer's build. The mace swung past Eliot's face, forcing him to step back, and the kid with the knife was suddenly there, the blade arcing through the air towards him. Twisting hard, Eliot blocked the mace with the crowbar, changing its direction and making it clash into the knife. The knife flew out of the kid's hand, and Eliot took the opportunity to bring the crowbar down hard on the kid's skull. The gangbanger dropped like a stone, but Eliot could still see his chest moving, meaning the kid was still alive. Jumping over the young man's body Eliot took the fight to the other side of the arena.

The man with the mace followed, swinging it in ever more confident arcs, a few of them coming close to Eliot. He countered with the crowbar, but the strain on his newly relocated shoulder was intensifying.

His opponent attacked again, and this time Eliot's counter was a little slow. The flail of the mace wrapped around his crowbar, and the other man jerked back, ripping the crowbar out of Eliot's hands.

The crowd gasped, his fans yelling in dismay and the others crowing with glee. The voices of his teammates clamored in his ears but he tuned them out, intent on only the spiked ball on the end of the mace that was currently swinging towards his head.

He leaped out of the way, landing hard on his left shoulder and rolling to the side. Too late he remembered the gangbanger, who had apparently regained consciousness and retrieved his knife.

The kid raised the knife high and thrust down, burying it to the hilt in the hitter's left thigh.

Eliot screamed in pain as the agony rocketed up his leg and into his entire body. Reflexively, he curled into a ball and lashed out with his right foot, smashing it into the gangbanger's face, crunching his nose and sending the cartilage into his brain, killing him instantly.

He heard the panicked yells of Nate and Sophie in his ear, and tried to ignore them, but his focus was shredded. "Shut up!" he roared, half in desperation, half in agony.

Suddenly the night sky was brightly lit with sirens and red and blue flashing lights, and chaos broke out. Screams were heard from the crowd as hundreds of people ran for their cars and SUV's. Headlights came on and trucks roared, crashing into each other in their desperate flight for freedom. Yells of the police and S.W.A.T. teams could be heard over the cries of the injured and desperate, and the flood lights of the arena went out, leaving the night illuminated only with the flashing lights of the police cars and choppers that dropped out of the sky to land among the bedlam.

The opposing fighter immediately dropped the mace and ran for the other side of the ring, collapsing as the electrical collar activated and he fell unconscious.

Eliot blinked, and Nate and Hardison were at his side, lifting him to his feet.

"Come on, man!" Hardison urged, as they carried him towards the helicopter waiting on the edge of the arena. Seeing where they were headed, he jerked back. "th' fence.." he mumbled.

"Hardison turned it off," Nate assured him.

But Eliot could still feel the thrumming power in the collar around his neck. He tried to fight more, struggling in their grasp, "no...'s still on..." he whimpered.

"Eliot, stop it!" Nate commanded, just as they crossed the perimeter.

The shock hit him then, making him cry out as his back arched and locked and he fell into the dirt. His body convulsed violently, the fiery agony ripping up and down his spine, making him jerk uncontrollably.

"Hardison! What..!"

"I don't know!" the hacker yelled, and dove back to his laptop.

Hands held Eliot's jaws, and he felt fingers forcing something between his teeth, but Eliot couldn't think as his arms and legs spasmed with the current, white hot pain clawing into his limbs.

As suddenly as the pain started, it stopped. Eliot went limp and his eyes rolled back into his head.

Nate and Hardison grabbed him again and lifted him up, his arms over their shoulders and their arms around his waist. They carried him toward the chopper, his feet dragging in the sand.

Eliot struggled back to consciousness again as they lifted him onto the floor of the chopper, Parker and Sophie waiting there with medical supplies. They slid the door shut on the massive helicopter and it immediately lifted off, its lights flashing red and blue.


	8. Chapter 8

Eliot struggled back to consciousness again as they lifted him onto the floor of the chopper, Parker and Sophie waiting there with medical supplies. They slid the door shut on the massive helicopter and it immediately lifted off, its lights flashing red and blue.

Hands held him steady as the chopper swayed in the wind gusts, and as soon as they leveled out, Parker and Sophie began their triage. They began with the knife still lodged in his thigh. Hardison held his leg still with a mumbled 'sorry, man,' as Nate gripped the handle. Eliot was aware enough to not attack them with clawed hands as Nate pulled the blade free, but the carpet of the helicopter was not so lucky as his fingers ripped it to shreds. He bit his lip as he felt the blade slice him again when it slid out, trying not to make a sound.

Parker held his head in her hands as she whispered in his ear and smoothed out the creases in his forehead. Panting, he tried to concentrate on her touch instead of the burning in his thigh as Hardison and Nate dressed the wound, wrapping a bandage snugly around his leg over his jeans.

"Not to insult ya or anything, man," Hardison interrupted over the din of the rotor blades. "But y'all need a bath. Bad."

Eliot's reply was a single finger raised shakily in the hacker's direction. The rest laughed nervously as the tension in the air slightly lessened.

The hitter let himself relax a little as they nursed his cuts and bruises, 'tsking' as another wound was found and summarily taken care of. The deep bruising that marred his chest they could do little about, except soothe with hot packs when they got home, so they continued treating the cuts and gashes with clean cloths and antibacterial ointments. His head was lifted and a folded jacket put on the floor, then gently laid back onto its softness. Someone lifted his legs carefully and put a folded up blanket under his knees, and he sighed at the relief in his back.

He heard metal clinking beside his ear and cracked open his eyes, seeing Parker sitting cross legged next to him with a bunch of lock picks in her hand. Her mouth was pursed and her tongue was sticking out a little in concentration as she lightly fingered the collar around his throat. Choosing a tool, she carefully inserted it into the lock of the collar and started turning, her eyes far away as she felt the inner workings of the tumblers.

The lock clicked open with a 'snap', and Eliot sighed as she eased the offending metal out from under his neck.

"See? Just gotta be fiddly with it." She smiled gently at him, pleased to be able to remove the hated object. Her hands wiped a cloth gently across his neck, cleaning the dirt away and revealing the bruises and cuts created by the metal. With soft fingertips, she applied an ointment to the cuts, working it gently into his skin as she frowned.

The helicopter shook as it encountered turbulence and Eliot moaned at the vibration in the creaking metal. Hands were placed on his head, shoulders and legs as the team tried to soothe him, knowing that they couldn't do much to alleviate his pain. Whispers in his ear again: that was Parker, her hand lying on his forehead and her thumb brushing his temple softly.

When the chopper evened out they all sighed in relief, but his was longer coming. Slowly the pain receded until it was manageable again, and he blinked open his eyes. The 'thwop' 'thwop' 'thwop' of the rotors nearly drowned out all conversation, and he was content in not speaking, since his throat was raw from screaming.

Coldness surrounded his bad shoulder and he found himself opening eyes he didn't know he had closed, and he saw Sophie tucking an ice pack onto the joint. She smiled gently at him when she saw his eyes open and stroked the side of his face softly.

"It's alright," she said, or at least, her lips moved in that formation. The steady beat of the rotors drowned out most sounds, and his head was pounding with the rhythm. Nate came up behind Sophie and yelled something in her ear and she nodded, bending down to put her mouth next to Eliot's ear.

"We'll be landing soon," he heard. He looked up as she straightened and nodded to indicate he had understood. At that moment he remembered something. He gripped her wrist and she looked back at him, questioning. She bent down again and he yelled, "Jack...Jessie!"

She backed up a little and shook her head, the question still in her eyes.

"The prisoners!" He yelled again, his voice breaking and ending in a cough which started the pain in his ribs to escalate. He wrapped an arm around his chest as his brows creased, but his eyes never left hers.

She nodded in comprehension. "They're fine!" she had to yell again. "We've handled it!"

Until they were on the ground and could speak in normal tones, he would just have to trust her.

Eliot felt the helicopters' skids thump lightly down onto the surface and he struggled to sit up. Brushing away the hands that tried to keep him lying down, he looked out the side of the chopper and saw that they were on the helipad of a building in the downtown Boston area. He recognized some of the buildings and closed his eyes briefly, sighing in relief.

During the flight, true night had fallen and they were able to land on the helipad with little notice. The pilot simply waited until they had gathered Eliot up and exited the chopper and then he was in flight again, taking off for parts unknown without a word or backwards glance. Nate and Hardison each had one of Eliot's arms across their shoulders, and they walked slowly to the door to the roof access, which Parker held open for them, never going faster than the wounded hitter could handle. Eliot didn't know which building they were on, but knew that there must have been some major strings pulled for the clandestine use of the helipad and unquestioned access to ground floor. They entered the top floor and made their way to the elevator banks, one of which was held open by Sophie. They stepped inside and Parker bounced in behind them, then pushed the button for the garage level.

If Eliot sagged against Hardison and his head rested on the taller man's chest, there were no comments made, just worried hands to hold him upright.

The elevator 'dinged', and the doors swished open. Eliot blinked and raised his head slowly, then struggled to put one foot in front of the other.

"Easy, Eliot," Nate said into his ear. "Just go easy."

"Yeah, man, don't rush yourself." That was Hardison.

Eliot stumbled and swayed a couple of times, and when he did, both Nate and Hardison paused until he was ready to go on. Exhaustion pulled at him, digging its fingers into his consciousness, but he pushed it away with effort. The dark van came into focus, which worried Eliot a little because he didn't remember his vision graying out.

The back doors were open, and they had made a bed of sorts on the floor with piles of blankets and pillows, and Eliot really looked forward to falling into it. They paused at the doors while the hitter looked down, trying to remember how to lift his foot to put it on the step. Finally able to get his sluggish body to follow his brains equally sluggish commands, he planted one foot, then the next, and managed to get up into the van, grunting when the pain flared up again in his leg. Now he looked down and the bed looked far away, and he wondered how he was going to get down there. Nate and Hardison must have understood, because they both knelt at the same time, and without their help holding him on his feet, Eliot's knees sagged as well.

Agony shot through his injured leg and he stiffened, his hands gripping their shoulders. Not in any rush, both men waited until the spasm passed, and then eased him down onto the blankets. He lay there panting as sweat dripped from his forehead, running down his face to disappear into his hair. Nate straightened his legs gently as Sophie pulled a blanket over him, making sure he was as comfortable as he could be.

"Let's get him home," he heard Nate say softly before he slipped into unconsciousness, and the last thing he felt was the reassuring vibration as the van started up and shifted into drive.

The next time Eliot woke they were just laying him down on the bed in the extra bedroom at Nate's; he recognized first the smell, then the sounds, even before he opened his eyes and recognized the interior of the room.

"He's awake," Sophie whispered, and the hands on him were even more gentle, if that were possible, as they eased him down onto the mattress. Parker brought the heavy duty first aid kit into the room, setting the duffle on the bed by his feet. Opening it, Nate took out the scissors and cut up the sides of Eliot's jeans, not wanting to move him more than necessary. As he worked to remove the hitter's jeans, Sophie and Parker worked on washing Eliot's chest and arms as well as they could. He let himself relax into their touch, stiffening up every once in a while when they skimmed over a cut or bruise. Hardison lifted Eliot's hips as Nate tugged the rest of the denim from underneath him, leaving him in only his boxer briefs. No one commented, and Eliot was unconcerned with modesty at this point, wanting only to forget what had happened. Nate inspected the wound on his thigh, which was still bleeding sluggishly.

"We gonna call Daniels?" the hacker asked him, referring to Eliot's unofficial personal miracle worker, the man who had put Eliot back together after many of his more bloody entanglements.

"No..." Eliot announced gruffly as he looked over at the bedside clock. It was 2:52 in the morning, let the man sleep, he thought.

"Eliot, this gash needs stitches," Nate replied, his hands still unwrapping the bandage gently.

"I know...just, hand me the kit..." he struggled to sit up.

"Eliot, what...?" Sophie started to ask, before her eyes got big. "Eliot, you can't be serious."

"Done it before," he muttered, successfully maintaining his seated position and reaching for the kit.

"Dude, that's hardcore," Hardison whispered as the hitter rummaged in the first aid bag, finding the suture kit and pulling it out.

"Eliot, do you really think that's a good idea?" Nate asked, hesitation evident in his voice.

"It's the middle of the night, Nate," Eliot growled. "By the time Daniels gets here, I can have done it three times over." He opened the Velcro tabs and laid the kit beside him as the rest of the team watched in fascination. Sophie, having watched him when Nate was shot, took the sterile saline bottle and looked at him, a question in her eyes. Eliot nodded and sat back as she flushed the wound, then cleaned it with sterile towelettes. Eliot sat up straight again and inspected the wound; the edges were clean, indicating that he wouldn't have to trim any excess skin, so he picked up the pre-loaded syringe of anesthetic and injected it around the site.

He heard Hardison gulp and looked up to see the hacker's hand over his mouth.

"Hardcore..." he muttered again, and Eliot swore the skin around his mouth was green.

"Go hurl somewhere else," Parker said, coming up to sit behind Eliot and steady him, and also so she could watch over his shoulder.

Eliot returned his attention to his leg, picking up the needle and forceps and beginning to stitch, drawing the needle through his own flesh without a twitch. The only indication of pain or stress was in the sweat beading on his forehead, which Sophie patted away with a washcloth like an experienced nurse. A few times Eliot paused, his hand shaking too much to go on, and then he'd sit back against Parker, breathing deeply and flexing his fingers until he was ready to continue.

Finally the wound was finished; the neat row of tiny stitches a testament to too hard a life, though Eliot didn't notice the concerned looks on his teammate's faces. When the last stitch was tied off, he reached a shaking hand toward the gauze pads, but was stopped when Parker took his hand and Nate took the gauze.

"Relax, Eliot," he said. "We can take it from here."

Eliot swallowed and sat there for a moment, broken out of his routine and floundering for direction as Sophie and Parker eased him back down onto the bed. When his head hit the pillow his body realized how worn out it was, and prevented his further movement. Nate held the dressing on the wound while Hardison wrapped his thigh, and when they were done they pulled a blanket back up to cover him.

Without warning, sleep jumped up and dragged the hitter off into dreamland; Eliot surrendered without a fight.

Eliot slept for eighteen hours, during which one of the team always sat with him, watching from the safety of the chair beside the table. Hardison had attempted to wake the hitter about fourteen hours into his rest and was now paying the price, trying to play his video game one-handed while the other hand held an ice pack to his swelling cheekbone.

"I told you that was a bad idea," Parker chirped from her perch on the back of the couch, startling the hacker so much that he dropped the controller on his foot.

"Dammit, Parker! How many times I gotta tell you, don't do that!"

The blonde just looked at him unconcerned; it wasn't her fault that he didn't hear her coming. Eliot always heard her just fine.

"He still sleeping?" Hardison asked. Parker nodded.

He shrugged as he picked up the controller, not noticing her finger until it was too late and had poked his cheek. He jumped again.

"Shit! Now I know why Eliot always growls at you!" He glared at her and batted her finger away as it came towards his face again. "Go away, dammit!"

She pouted, sticking her bottom lip out, then stood on the cushion and stepped onto the floor. "You're no fun," she huffed, walking towards the bedroom.

"Do that to Eliot, I dare ya," the hacker muttered to her retreating figure.

"That's no fun either, he's sleeping," she said without looking back.

Walking into the room where Eliot was, she stood at the door until Sophie noticed she was there. Raising her head from the book she had been looking at, she waved her hand towards the man in the bed.

"He's still asleep." Parker nodded at her obvious statement.

"...m 'wake.." Eliot murmured, opening his eyes to slits.

Sophie sat up and Parker moved forward, both eager to see him conscious and lucid again.

"How are you feeling?" Sophie asked as she brushed his hair back from his forehead.

"Tired," he said, his body aching and oddly, craving more rest.

"That's to be expected," she replied, her fingers fussing over the blanket, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles.

"Are you thirsty?" she asked, noticing him swallowing against the dryness in his throat. He nodded.

She reached for the glass of water on the table beside the bed and handed it to him, steadying it with one hand as her other arm supported him under his shoulders.

He took a few sips, waiting for it to settle before drinking more. Slowly, he finished the glass and let her take it back after easing him back to the cushions.

Parker stepped up onto the other side of the bed, walked over and sat down cross-legged on the pillow next to his head where she usually perched, unconcerned that he might haul off and smack her in his sleep.

"You'll be better in no time, Sparky," she said brightly, her fingers capturing strands of his hair and playing with them. She watched as she closed his eyes again, seemingly soothed by her touch, but then they flew open again.

"Sophie, you said...Jack, Jessie...You said you got them out?" he stammered, his thoughts still a little disjointed.

"Yes, they're fine. Jack has been taken to Our Lady's Mercy in Las Vegas, and Jessie is with him. They both will be just fine." She watched as Eliot relaxed again upon hearing the news. "How did you know them?"

"Jack...he was one of the fighters, in my cell." Eliot remembered the man who had helped him focus, however small, on staying alive, and was grateful that the man was going to be okay. He was also extremely happy that Jessie was receiving treatment as well, and hoped that the scars, both physical and mental, would be healed. He didn't want the young man's life to be wasted because of this incident, however horrible it might have been. "Did you find anything out about Jessie?" he asked.

"Yeah, I did." Hardison had heard the conversation from the living room and his curiosity led him to the room. "Apparently Jack Framingham, 'Jack' to you, had been abducted about a week earlier than you were. From Las Vegas, of all places, riddle me that," he said sarcastically. "His son, Jessie, was the only one with the balls to go out into the desert to try and find him, but unfortunately, was found by the guys who ran this illegal gaming operation first. They didn't know the kid's relation to Jack, and so they had him held at one of the other four compounds around the desert. Unfortunately, he was knocked around a bit..." Hardison skirted around the subject of 'abuse', and continued. "The kid was a pretty good source of information for the local LEO's, and they managed to find all of the underground holding cells, as well as the mastermind behind it, and took them all out. Pretty slick system, I have to admit," said the hacker as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Kept 20 fighters at a time, four in each of the compounds. They'd drive two out to a prearranged spot that changed each time to random longitudes and latitudes. Those coordinates were given to pre-approved customers via encrypted email only one hour before the event, so authorities wouldn't even have had time to mount a bust. The fights were recorded, then bounced off of a dozen foreign and domestic feeds that even I had a hard time hacking."

Nate joined them in the room. "But he did manage to find you, so we went with the 'Bored-and Pampered-Royal' scam, created Lady Danube-Rothfort and her cadre of fighters who was eager to add to her collection. Hardison insinuated her into the list of 'clients' on their roster, and she was able to charm her way into the ranks to inspect the fighters. It took a while to find you. We're sorry we didn't get to you sooner, Eliot."

Eliot merely nodded; his brain had started to shut down soon after the concepts that 'Jack is safe,' and 'Jessie's safe,' had processed. The rest of the long winded explanation could wait, it insisted, and began shutting off the lights.

Nate saw that Eliot was fighting a losing battle against his exhaustion, so he stopped.

"We'll tell him again when he's more awake," he said to the rest of the team as Eliot's eyelids slid shut.

For now the team was satisfied that their number was once again five, and they were content with that.


End file.
